


All the Gold in Erebor

by QueensJenn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poisoning, Sick Thorin, This is nasty, Thrain is also not good, Thror is not good, fucked up family, gold madness, major angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueensJenn/pseuds/QueensJenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(A spin-off from my other story, "When it Rains, it Pours".</p><p>The first time Thorin is poisoned, he wakes up warm and safe in his bed, his grandfather's kind voice telling him that it was worth a few paltry pieces of gold to get the antidote.</p><p>The second time he is poisoned, he does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spin-off from Chapter 4 of "When it Rains, it Pours", specifically, this bit:
> 
> "Bilbo felt his body go cold. 'You’ve been poisoned before?'
> 
> Thorin nodded. 'Twice. Before the gold sickness took him, the easiest way to get to my grandfather was to threaten the life of his heir.'
> 
> 'And…and after the gold sickness?'
> 
> There was a hard look in his blue eyes. 'After the gold sickness…I recovered on my own.'"

The first time Thorin is poisoned, he is twenty-five. Not yet Oakenshield, only just proclaimed as Thrain’s heir, and thereby Thror’s heir. He doesn’t know at first what is going on; why he feels strange and sick, and why King Thror thunders words he doesn’t understand. He only remembers later, being warm and safe in his bed, and Thror’s kind eyes reassuring him that everything is all right, everything is fine, it was worth a few paltry gold pieces.

The second time Thorin is poisoned, he is much older. A true Prince of Erebor, a fine warrior, beloved by the realm.

He has a better idea of what’s happening this time. There’s an odd taste to his food bitter and metallic. He forces himself to take another bite. If the poisoners are watching, he won’t give them the satisfaction of watching him crumble. Mechanically he forces himself to eat and drink, avoiding the tainted food. It’s the stew, he thinks dully, breathing deeply to quell the nausea. The beef stew. The poisoners must have known he wouldn’t be able to resist it. An inside job, then.

He clenches his teeth and smiles, pretending to listen to the old noble seated to his left, but the words don’t make any sense, and he already feels lightheaded and floaty. He can feel the sweat dripping down his back, and desperately tries to remember if it had happened this quickly the last time.

He stands gracefully as his stomach revolts, murmuring apologies and goodnights, and forces himself to walk, not run, until he is outside the great dining hall. He doesn’t even have time to hunch over before vomiting down the front of his clothes ( _a nice tunic_ , he thinks distantly. _Just made for this feast. A shame to ruin it_.)

The mess is tinted red with the distinct hue of blood.

He has to move fast, but the floor is tilting and swaying like a children’s festival ride. He takes a step, and then another, but his balance fails and he falls to his knees. Clambering back to his feet takes nearly more effort than he can spare, and its only the knowledge that he _has_ to keep moving that forces him, groaning, to rise.

The second time he falls, it takes him longer to get back up.

The third time he falls, he can’t.

Strong arms wrap around him and lift him to his feet. Dwalin. His friend hadn’t been at the High Table, but he must have seen Thorin leave early and known something was wrong.

“Thorin, what -“

“Poison,” he grounds out, and vomits again. This time, all he brings up is a wash of blood. “The Halls.” He can’t bring himself to ask for help, but he can’t walk unaided and Dwalin can see that. He takes one of Thorin’s arms over his broad shoulder, and if the Prince leans on him so heavily that he’s halfway worried of ripping his arm out of the socket, he says nothing. He leads them down the back ways, the secret ways that have been constructed just for incidents like this.

Thorin lets himself be dragged along, and feels oddly like he is floating. The pain is gone and all that’s left is numbness that seems to be spreading up his body.

Only one hundred feet from the doors of the great Halls of Healing, his feet go numb and fail him, and falls to the floor and can’t get up. He retches again and watches the crimson liquid with disinterest, as though it’s happening to someone else. He feels so far away, like simply thoughts floating in a void, and even that fades as Dwalin picks him up bodily and carries him like a child.

By the time they finally (finally!) reach the Halls of Healing, Thorin has stopped breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhhhh I dunno. I didn't mean to take SO long with the next chapter, but I seriously got stuck with this fic. Like, seriously stuck. But I finally focussed enough to get this out. I'm not 1000% happy, but at least it's something, right?....right?
> 
> Also it's really short. I promise the next chapter will be longer. Blahhhhhhhhhhh thisjustisntworkingforme

It’s said that there are no better healers in Middle Earth than the Elves, but the Dwarves of Erebor are more than qualified to give them a run for their money. 

Or so thought Arna, Chief of the Healers of Erebor, but that was before the Crown Princeling is dragged into her Halls, blue-lipped and smeared in his own blood. At first sight she nearly gives him up for dead, but Fundin’s son throws him down on the examining table and demands, in a voice gone tight with desperation, that they do something.

At once the entire team of healers snaps into action, surrounding the table. Rugur and Dathol strip Thorin’s clothes off and Mathan pounds on his chest, over and over in a steady rythm until finally Thorin gasps, coughs, and begins to breathe on his own.

“Poison,” Arna says grimly. Aside from infection, there are very few things that can bring a Dwarf down, and there are no telltale signs of infection. Would that it were - infection is easy enough to treat, if it’s stopped in time. But poison, poison is much worse. The antidote for one might kill if the poison is a different kind, but to do nothing is just as bad.

Arna knows that Thorin doesn’t have much of a chance. 

But they have to try something.

“What did you see?” she rounds on Fundin’s son. “You were at the feast? Tell me what you saw!”

“Nothing,” the boy says, his eyes still trained on the Princeling. Thorin is breathing again but that’s only a small improvement; he’s still unconscious and Arna can tell just by looking at him that his fever rages out of control. “I didn’t see anything. We all were eating, and then he left.”

Poisoned food? That narrows it down a bit. She thanks him, then tells him to get out. Fundin’s son plants his feet stubbornly. “I want to stay.”

Arna doesn’t have time to argue with him. “Out of the way then. There, in that corner.”

Food-based poison. It narrows down the possibilities, but there are still far too many. 

Thorin is stable enough; he’s still in bad condition but at least he doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. Arna feels her hopes raise. If they can keep him stable for long enough that they can figure out the poison used, or better yet, for the poisoners to come forward and the antidote ransomed —

A shout draws her attention to one of the junior healers, positioned by base of the table. He points to Thorin’s legs, were an angry red rash is spreading over his skin.

“Dragonfire,” Oin says, his eyes wide. “It’s Dragonfire!”

Arna feels her hopes sink.

 


End file.
